


Difficult

by lookupkate



Category: Rita (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Head Teacher!John, M/M, Stubborn Sherlock, Teacher!Sherlock, Teaching, teaching au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9567641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: Inspired by Sherlock BBC (series 1-3), although noncompliant, and Rita (TV).Sherlock is teaching fourteen-year-olds about more than just their studies. He enjoys children's malleable brains and they enjoy his gallows humor and honesty.John is trying to keep the students, staff, and parents happy, which is difficult enough without someone as strong headed as Sherlock on his staff.While Sherlock carries on pointedly NOT falling in love with John, the Head Teacher has resigned himself to once again being arse over tits for the man he can't have. He is a romantic, after all.Will Sherlock ever grow to like himself enough to allow a relationship to happen?Yes. He will.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



> An early Valentine's Day present for my favourite person in the entire universe, and universes beyond, Jess, aka Yarnjunkie.

Sherlock sat on the toilet lid, smoking his first cigarette of the day. Half past two; he'd made it through half the day without having to light one up, so that was good.

It wasn't where he had imagined his life. He thought he'd be a detective, or a chemist, or a myriad of other things. Instead, he was sitting in the cramped bathroom stall of a mediocre secondary school, where he taught year ten to a group of children who were foolish enough to like him. 35, and yet to really feel like an adult.

He took a long drag and looked at the graffiti on the wall. It was always interesting to see how young brains worked. It was also interesting to see what they thought of him. There, smack in the middle of the wall, was message in thick black ink.

'Sherlock is buggering the headmaster'

He grabbed a marker for his pack and bit the cap, pulling at the pen and slashing through part of the message before writing. Happy with it, he recapped the pen and stuffed it in his bag, taking one last drag and tossing the cigarette butt in the toilet.

It sat there after he left, bobbing in the water, surrounded by graffiti, including the newly clear message:

'Sherlock is buggering the HEAD TEACHER.'

_____

"Alright, class," Sherlock began, surveying the sea of students eagerly awaiting his command, "can anyone tell me why we moved from the terms Head Master and Head Mistress to Head Teacher?"

One hand shot up, Derrick's, but Sherlock ignored it, even as it began to wave frantically.

"Aaaaanyone?" he pressed.

Another hand rose hesitantly and he pointed to it.

"Because Head Teacher doesn't show gender?" the girl, one of his favourite students, asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Correct. And why don't we want gender to be obvious in professional titles?"

A few more hands rose and he called on a small boy in the back. "Prejudice."

"Yes, exactly. Because humans are taught to disregard the work of women, and to trust men. Which is what?" Sherlock asked.

"Idiotic, sir," a girl in the front row sputtered.

Sherlock sat back on his desk and grinned. "Rightly put. But, if we're going to win arguments with adults we have to use fancy words. So, when someone ignores a woman's work, or expects her to do a lesser job, what shall we tell them?"

Derrick raised his hand again and Sherlock gave in, knowing he would have the answer he was trying to get out of the lot.

"We tell them not to let their underlying biases rule their head," Derrick said, a bit too proudly.

"Good," Sherlock admitted. "Now, we're going to do a small writing set to remind ourselves. Line one-"

_____

The bell had just gone off for the last class and Sherlock was already hurrying down the hall. He made it to the Head Teacher's office and bolted the door behind himself. John was sitting in his chair looking over some papers, and looked up at the frenzied entrance.

"Sherlock," he said, licking his lips and shifting in his seat.

"No small talk today, I've had too many people blabbering away at me already. Get your cock out," Sherlock insisted, walking around John's desk and dropping his trousers right there. 

"No pants," John said, standing and gripping Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock frowned and wriggled said hips. "Just do it already."

John huffed out a laugh and pulled open a locked drawer to get some lube and a condom. "If I didn't know better, I would think you were using me for sex."

"I am using you for sex," Sherlock replied, hissing at the cold of the slick, but letting himself relax as John started to push two fingers into him. He was slightly proud of himself for waiting a whole week from their last tryst. In all honesty, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"A little romance wouldn't be putting me out, you know," John said, stretching Sherlock with gorgeous, blunt fingers. "I'd like to take you to dinner sometime."

"I'm well aware," Sherlock said, resting his arms on the desk and letting his legs slip as far apart as he could manage with his trousers around his ankles.

"Course you are," John said. 

Sherlock thought that he might actually get an argument when John removed his fingers. His heart raced a bit, but was soothed when he heard the rip of the condom wrapper. He closed his eyes and felt John push in.

And, god, he could get used to that. He really could. He was almost tempted to bring the man home with him, if only for the convenience of having him again in the morning. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't like John, because he did, but rather that he liked him a bit too much. He could see John pushing his way into his life. He could imagine John nagging him to clean the flat, could imagine staying in bed late into the afternoon on the weekends and reading the paper together, he could imagine John across from him at the kitchen table, licking marmalade from his fingers. He could imagine all that perfectly, and then he could see it all going to shit.

Much better to keep the man at arm's length.

The phone on the desk rang, the tinny sound making Sherlock wince. John thrust into him twice more and stilled.

"Hello?"

Lord, the man had to answer the bloody phone in the middle of-

"Well, I'm sure that wasn't what he was trying to say," John answered, whoever was on the phone making him audibly irritated. "You know he's more...flexible with his teaching style."

Sherlock let his head hit the desk and tightened his arsehole out of reprisal. If the idiot was going to answer the phone while they were fucking, he'd have to expect it to be a bit difficult to concentrate.

John's breath hitched slightly as a result. "Y-yes. Yes. I'll have a talk with him. Thank you. Goodbye."

Sherlock squeezed him again and John sighed, picking the pace back up and grunting while he spoke.

"Derrick told his mother you refused to call on him today. He also said the sentences they wrote were of an x-rated nature. You know you can't be doing that," John said, fingers digging into Sherlock's hips.

"Says the Head Teacher with his prick up my arse," Sherlock replied with a snort. "Harder."

John huffed and reached around to take Sherlock's prick in his fist, kissing Sherlock's neck sloppily and burying himself deep with every thrust. It was just enough, the pressure and the slick show of affection, to send Sherlock over the edge. He came and slumped against the desk fully, waiting for John to find his own end.

"God," John grunted, mouth pressed to Sherlock's ear. "You can be such a damn menace."

And with that he spilled into the condom and collapsed. Sherlock hummed in agreement and let his mind wander as John pulled out and cleaned them both up a bit. 

"You shouldn't be talking about sex in class," John said, sitting back down in his chair and running a hand though his hair.

Sherlock pulled his trousers back up and straightened his shirt. "They know about sex, John, they're 14. I'm not going to treat them like idiots."

John smiled at him softly when he turned around. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock had no intention of staying to chat.

"Well, I'm off," he said, walking to the door.

"Have anything on tonight?" John asked, ever hopeful.

"My brother is insisting on dinner," Sherlock replied with a frown. John had met the man, and knew first hand why that frown was completely justified.

John stood and walked him to the door. He hesitated with his hand over the knob. "Well, you have my number if you want to talk."

Sherlock looked at him. He was a puzzling man. Anyone else would have given up at that point.

"That's the kind of man I am," John said, answering the unasked question.

"Tell me again why you're single," Sherlock said, scrunching up his nose and looking rather suspiciously at him.

"Because I apparently have a thing for men who are unavailable," John murmured, fiddling with Sherlock's collar.

Sherlock huffed through his nose and leaned in to kiss him once, chastely. "Finally listening to your therapist?"

"Oh," John said, wry smiling pulling at his thin lips, "I've always listened. I just find I'd rather not take her advice."

Sherlock felt something stir in his chest. Too close. He was too involved. He nodded once and John opened the door.

"It's a charming quality," Sherlock admitted.

"What is?"

"Your refusal to listen to reason."

John smiled sadly and nodded. "Well, it's gotten me this far."

They paused there, the last few students leaving the lecture hall, and then Sherlock turned and left. Turning and leaving, after all, was the only thing he could ever bring himself to do.


	2. Potential

Mycroft was at Sherlock's front door when he got home, standing there with his smarmy grin and his stupid umbrella. Sherlock wondered for a second if he should have taken John up on his offer of dinner.

"Sherlock," Mycroft drawled, "so good to see you."

"If only I could say the same," Sherlock grumbled, unlocking the front door and stepping through.

"I was thrilled that you could make time for me on such short notice," Mycroft said, following Sherlock in and stepping over the pile of school things the man had left in his wake.

Sherlock wasn't the best homemaker, he knew that, but the place did have a certain charm. The house used to belong to an aunt of theirs, and Sherlock had taken it over when she had passed a few years prior. He couldn't afford the flat in central London on a teacher's salary alone, and his last flatmate had left screaming after only two months in the residence. Here, the complaints of a flatmate were replaced by the complaints of old pipes and a foundation in need of repair, and that was just fine.

Mycroft had attempted to get him to do at least a cursory renovation when he moved in, but Sherlock rather liked the out of date wallpaper and dysfunctional circuitry system. He also liked the slew of repairmen that accompanied the house's little bouts of anger. Hell, he'd got a good rogering out of the broken sink in the loo just a week prior. 

The kitchen was overflowing with gadgets, medical equipment, and scientific experiments in varying levels of decay, so Sherlock simply plucked a menu from the drawer and continued on to the back yard. He always used the backyard as a dining area when his brother came over, knowing full well that the overgrown plants and local fauna drove Mycroft to hives if he stayed more than a few hours. Mycroft followed him tentatively and stood while Sherlock sat at the small folding table and rang his favourite Chinese place.

"It might rain," Mycroft said, shifting from foot to foot, after Sherlock had ended the call. "Don't you think we should eat inside."

Sherlock feigned a shiver and shook his head, lighting up a cigarette and leaning back in his chair. "If it does rain, we'd be much better off out here; the dining room ceiling leaks."

Mycroft sighed and used his handkerchief to dust off the seat of one of the mismatched chairs.

"So, why are you here?" Sherlock asked, once they'd sat in silence long enough for even him to want to break.

"Can't I be worried about my little brother?" Mycroft asked with faux concern.

Sherlock snorted. "Worry can be achieved over the phone."

Mycroft nodded and dropped the facade. "I'm confused, Sherlock."

"It's that why your face looks like that? I had thought it was indigestion."

"It's the start of another school year," Mycroft pressed.

"Ah, I see where the confusion comes in. They're often ANNUAL, these school years. I know it's difficult to follow, so if you like, we could come up with a mnemonic together," Sherlock answered brightly.

Mycroft scowled. (Point one for Sherlock.) "You know what I mean. It's been five years, Sherlock. Don't you think it's time to give up on this little...hobby, and come back to the real world?"

"My job isn't a hobby, Mycroft," Sherlock spat, standing so he could pace.

"Sherlock, you had such potential. You can't possibly go on like this. You've the mind of a scientist, and yet you spend your day with children." Mycroft said the last word with such disgust that one would have thought it a synonym for leeches.

"I'm not coming to work for you," Sherlock replied, sick of going over it again, "and the sooner you understand that, the better."

"Your mind is wasted on them. You could be doing such good," Mycroft continued, following Sherlock as he walked to answer the knock at the front door.

Sherlock paid the delivery boy and stomped back through the house without answering his brother. 

Mycroft didn't sit back down, instead looming over the small table as Sherlock set out the chow mien and garlic chicken. "Sherlock."

"Are you going to eat?" Sherlock asked, taking a disgustingly large bite on purpose and grinning around it.

_____

The water in the bath was starting to cool. Mycroft had left an hour earlier and it had taken the whole hour for Sherlock's mind to stop screaming at him. He added some hot water to top the bath off and let his thumb press the button it was hovering over on his mobile.

John's voice came three rings later. "Hello? Sherlock?"

Somehow, the words just wouldn't form.

"Sherlock? You there?"

Sherlock grunted in response.

"Bad, was it?" John asked.

And that, that right there made Sherlock swallow down hard on an almost sob. Damn the man for understanding.

There was a long pause, and the sound of shuffling, and Sherlock let his eyes fall closed as John started to speak again. "My mum always wanted me to be a doctor. Have I ever told you that? Yeah. School administrator was as close to a dirty word as you could get in our house."

Sherlock slipped further into the water and lay the phone on the lip of the tub, on speaker.

"Mum was always railing on me about how little I'd make after all that schooling, and dad just wanted me to put in time in the military. It's...it's hard when you don't live up to your family's expectations."

There was another long pause and Sherlock felt a hot tear track down his face.

"For what it's worth...I think you're a great teacher. The kids, the kids love you," John murmured through the line.

"I know I'm a great teacher," Sherlock spat, hating the way his voice sounded.

John cleared his throat, always uncomfortable with Sherlock's anger. "Well...good."

The water sloshed around a bit as Sherlock turned over, and they ended up just listening to the other breathe for a while.

"The water's gone cold," Sherlock said, at length. 

John chuckled. "Well, you'd better get out, then, hadn't you? Don't want you coming down with something the first week in."

"Suppose not," Sherlock replied flatly, sitting up and pulling the drain.

John sighed gently and Sherlock wondered if he was already in bed, wondered how the sheets felt against his skin, if they were warm.

"I should probably go," John said, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. "I've some papers to finish before sleep."

Sherlock grunted in agreement. "Yes. School night, after all." After another pause, one last one for good measure, he supposed, Sherlock went on. "Goodnight."

Sherlock heard John draw in a deep breath before saying the same, and rang off quickly so he didn't have to hear the man utter his name.

_____

Sherlock had barely made it through the front door of the school when he was assaulted by the presence of the newest staff member. She jogged to stay next to him, braided pigtails bobbing. If he'd fallen haphazardly into teaching, this woman had done so with great deliberation.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Molly," Sherlock replied, nodding to a few students on the way.

"You'll be happy to hear my first day went well," Molly gushed.

Sherlock smiled, tight-lipped, and hoped the conversation would end soon. "Ah, good."

"Yes, the students are so...full of life! And I don't have any questions," Molly replied.

"Also good," Sherlock noted. 

"Well...one."

Sherlock sighed and continued walking. "Out with it."

"What do you do if a student throws something at you?" Molly asked, smile eager, if tinged with sadness.

Sherlock stopped at that and turned. "Molly, did a student throw something at you?"

"No...just, hypothetically."

"And what would a student hypothetically throw?" Sherlock asked, confused by the whole interaction.

"Maybe a pencil case. A pencil case with sharp edges?" Molly said, well, asked, cheeks flushing.

"Molly," Sherlock said, seriously wondering if the woman was cut out for work like this. "If a student throws something, you have to stop that at once. Especially something sharp. They'll take advantage. Show them who's boss."

Molly nodded enthusiastically. "Boss. And that's...me."

Sherlock sighed and was happy that the bell chose that moment to ring. "Yes, Molly. That's you."

Molly gave him a strange little salute, and he watched her walk away.

Across the hall, standing just out of sight, John saw the interaction. Ms Hooper was just out of school, and he'd wondered who he should partner her with. New teachers always needed a more hardened eye to keep them from falling to the way side. He'd been thinking of one of the older teachers, in all honesty, but it looked like Molly had found herself a mentor before he could.

They were polar opposites, Molly and Sherlock, but John got the feeling that they would work out. He watched Sherlock effortlessly get the attention of his class, and wondered what the man's brother had said to him the night before. He made a mental note to call the brother, and went to his desk to commence his day.


	3. SHERLOCK IS

During lunch, after going to get the food he forgot in the car, John walked in on Sherlock sitting alone, and in the dark, in the Head Teacher's office. He was sitting in his chair, heels rested on the edge of his desk, and holding the 'Head Teacher' plaque in his hands. John tried not to look pleased.

He knew Sherlock. Sherlock would balk at the attention, would frown and stomp out if it was apparent that John wanted to see him. John's emotional attraction, and in fact any emotional intimacy whatsoever, seemed to frighten Sherlock.

(Cool. Smooth. Come on, John, play it cool.)

It was a stupid dance they did, and John was just about done with it, thank you very damn much. Sherlock tried to seem indifferent and John did the same, then Sherlock played off John's feigned indifference and grew more standoffish and John had to try to do the same. He failed, of course, always had done with Sherlock, and the man took it as some sort of insult. He acted as though John was trying to lull him into a sense of safety, when John really just wanted him to feel safe.

"Playing at Head Teacher?" John asked closing the door behind himself and locking it.

Sherlock looked up, seemingly startled out of his contemplation. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Choices, must make important choices and play with my cock under the table. Big important choices."

"Crude." John snorted and went to sit across from him, settling down in the seat and carefully opening his sandwich.

Sherlock perked up and looked to see what John was having. "Tuna? No."

John paused, half of the sandwich hovering before his lips. "And why not?"

"I hate tuna. You know I hate tuna," Sherlock answered, picking at his sleeve as if embarrassed to admit it.

"Well, I won't make you eat it, then," John said.

"But then your mouth would taste of tuna," Sherlock grumbled.

It hit John square in the chest, knocked the air from him. He set the sandwich down on the waxed paper and brushed his hands off on his napkin. They never kissed with tongue. Sherlock's rule, not his. "We don't do that, you said, you said that-"

"I know what I said," Sherlock hissed, nose scrunching up. "Still not fair of you to take the option off the table."

John took a deep breath and licked his lips, electricity crackling through him at the thought. "Well, come on. Come taste me."

Sherlock's mouth tensed and he shook his head once, no. John sighed and took a large bite of the sandwich in retribution, and they sat there in silence while he finished the whole thing.

_____

After school, John and Sherlock had a meeting with Derrick's parents. They were concerned that Sherlock was being unfairly mean to their son. Sherlock detested that sort of hand holding, and was telling John so as they walked to the back room when they heard someone crying in the supply closet. 

They both stopped and Sherlock opened the door slowly. Behind it was Ms Hooper.

"Oh, here it is," she said with a sniffle, holding up a stapler. "I'd better-"

"John," Sherlock intoned, "go ahead. I'll be right there."

John left the two of them and Sherlock leaned back, arms crossed, and looked at Molly. She sagged a bit and he spoke. "What's happened?"

"Am I unprepared? Am I a bad teacher?" Molly asked, cheeks reddening to match her eyes.

"Not at all. If you ask me, you prepare a bit too much. Children require flexibility," Sherlock answered. "Who said you were unprepared?"

"Derrick," Molly answered, tears starting up again. "I-I prepared all night and he still said I was the most unprepared teacher he'd ever had."

Sherlock was already walking out into the hall. "He won't bother you again, I promise you that."

Molly walked out after him, grin spreading across her face. "You're my hero, Sherlock Holmes. Ballads should be written about you!"

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and kept walking, even as she started to hum.

_____

Sherlock strode in and took a seat across from the parents, spreading out his limbs and attempting to look utterly put upon. John, beside him, cleared his throat.

"Alright, uh, Derrick's parents have some concerns," John said, tapping a biro against his notepad.

"Do you? Wonderful, I have concerns as well. You go first," Sherlock said, smile slimy and dripping with unsaid threats.

"W-well," the mother started, "Derrick says that you don't call on him in class. He says you avoid him, even as he has his hand raised for every question. He says it's obvious you don't like him, and-"

"I don't," Sherlock said flatly.

"You can't just..." the woman tried to object.

"Can't be annoyed by your perfect child? Would you rather he be taught by robots? Look, I know it's difficult to hear, but Derrick is annoying. I can't call on him each time, or the rest of the class doesn't have enough chance to learn. He gets to answer 18% of the time, and if he wants more than that, he'll have to get a private tutor. He's haughty, and short, and no one likes him. That's not my fault," Sherlock answered.

The husband looked back and forth between Sherlock and his wife as John looked like he didn't understand what the hell he was even doing there.

"That's not fair!" the woman said.

"Life isn't fair," Sherlock answered. "I promise I'm no ruder to him than any other student, he simply wants what he can't have."

"And what's that?" he mother asked, accusingly.

"All of my attention all of the time. He's a horrible hog of attention. You can't say you haven't noticed," Sherlock said.

"Well," the father chimed in meekly, "he does interrupt quite a lot." And when the mother looked at him, aghast, "we talked about this."

Sherlock sat up in his seat. "Well, it seems to me that instead of talking amongst yourselves, you should involve Derrick in the conversation. The way he acts won't get him any friends. You can take this head on and help him adapt, or you can coddle him, like you do, and remain the beloved mother."

When the mother said nothing, and averted his eyes, he dropped the bomb. "Did you know that Derrick made a teacher cry today?"

The mother looked up. "...no."

"Well, now you do. I take it you'll speak to him about his harsh criticism of his teachers in front of his peers. Perhaps he'll learn from that." Sherlock said, standing and making to leave.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," John said turning back to the parents. "Now, let's see if we can get you an appointment with the counselor."

_____

Sherlock walked out the door and down the hall, stopping in his office for an orange and heading into the library.

"You can't eat that in here," a voice said, to Sherlock's right.

Sherlock turned to see Derrick sitting at one of the tables, looking over some papers. He peeled the orange a bit and stuck a piece in his mouth before leaving the peel sitting on top of one of the bookshelves and walking over.

"What are you doing?" he asked, because he didn't REALLY hate the child.

"Homework," Derrick said. 

Sherlock stood across from him and continued to eat. "Hmm."

"I know I'm annoying," Derrick said, "but I can't stop."

Sherlock paused for a second, a bit too reminded of his childhood. When he made his decision he nodded and turned around. "Come along."

_____

Once they were standing in the public stall of the student's loo, Sherlock pulled a marker from his pocket. He held it out to Derrick.

"What am I meant to do?" Derrick asked, taking the pen hesitantly, as if it might bite or change into something strange in his hands.

"Be a child for once in your life. Write something on the wall," Sherlock answered, leaning back.

Derrick took the cap off the marker and drew a peace sign on the wall. He looked to Sherlock and held the pen out.

"Not like that," Sherlock sighed, refusing the marker. "Write something bad. Cock, or arsehole. Write Sherlock is an arsehole."

Derrick uncapped the pen and wrote the first two words, before grumbling and handing the pen back. 

"You act like an adult all the time," Sherlock said, "and that's why none of the children like you."

"And you act like a child," Derrick countered. "That's why the adults don't like you."

Derrick turned and left and Sherlock slumped down to sit on the toilet lid, pulling out his cigarettes and lighting one up.

Across from him, the words swirled, and others were added on. The wall danced with them.

SHERLOCK IS

SHERLOCK IS ALONE

SHERLOCK IS A CHILD

SHERLOCK IS PATHETIC

and, most frightening,

SHERLOCK IS IN LOVE WITH JOHN 

Sherlock looked to the floor and cursed, rubbing his eyes and taking a deep drag. From the mouths of babes.


End file.
